To Learn About Finalities
by Hekate1308
Summary: He had expected it for a long time, this knock at his door. To be honest, he would have been disappointed if Sherlock hadn't found out anytime soon. Sherlock Holmes and DI Greg Lestrade midnight confession, Post-Reunion. AU.


**Author's note: I am aware that this may be the weirdest idea I ever had.**

**Thing is, I have often seen this idea with Sherlock or John or both, or with Mycroft – but never with Lestrade. If there is one story I'm not aware of, I apologize.**

**I had originally planned for this to be my Halloween oneshot, but then I had the idea of Moriarty's (that story needs more love, btw, as does my Life on Mars one), and I wrote that first and then I remembered this idea and thought why not? **

**I don't own anything, and please review.**

He had expected it for a long time, this knock at his door.

To be honest, he would have been disappointed if Sherlock hadn't found out anytime soon. The consulting detective was supposed to be clever, after all; he should be aware of what he was doing.

Which was why he'd done what he'd spent the last month doing.

Everything had become rather boring, and he wanted things to –

Well, if not exactly to end, then to change.

And with this knock on his door, at midnight of all times, he knew that they would.

Things would change, and maybe, just maybe, he would be saved from the boredom that plagued his days.

He opened the door.

"Sherlock" he greeted the man standing in front of him, the man who, once again, wore a blank expression on his face.

"Lestrade" he answered. So no more "Greg" then. But, under these circumstances, and considering the empty face, which meant, of course, the detective knew everything, everything he'd done and everything he was capable of doing –

He wouldn't have expected anything different.

Sherlock sweeps past him, and stands in front of his sofa.

"You know why I am here?"

"I have a hunch" he replied, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't have cared less. Everything had become so utterly boring, and he wanted something new. Looks like Sherlock Holmes was going to give it to him.

Suddenly, Sherlock looked unsure. Scared even. Lestrade made sure to cherish that look; there was something wonderful about having the great Sherlock Holmes scared of him, the plain, normal DI Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock clears his throat. "So... I am here because of the... the crime scene you called me in on yesterday."

"So I gathered" he answered.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and his face became an impassive mask once again. As it should be. There was no reason, no reason at all, why Sherlock Holmes should have an emotion, even when the victim had been killed in a way that was reminiscent of Jack the Ripper's _modus operandi_ – and even when it was the fourth victim in just four days. He was a sociopath, after all, and Lestrade tried to suppress a snigger. He succeeded, but only just.

"You are aware that your footprints were found right next to the victim?" Sherlock demanded to know.

He had fun, more fun than he'd had in ages. Or maybe it was just satisfaction that the doom he'd prepared for himself had finally caught up with him. Either way, he decided to prolong it a bit. Just for a little while.

"You know I stumbled onto the crime scene, Sherlock – My foot got caught on a stone, and I know it must be annoying for you, but these things happen – "

"Lestrade" Sherlock interrupted, his gaze deadly. "Let's not go there – please. You know I know that the foot prints were too distinct, too perfect. They couldn't have been made by someone "stumbling" as you just put it. So – " He had to swallow. So the great Sherlock Holmes cared about someone who wasn't his army doctor. Interesting.

"So I would like to hear your explanation, DI Greg Lestrade". He sat down on the sofa, after this, as if telling the story had taken everything out of him.

He decided to keep playing a little longer still. "Sherlock, maybe it was just your imagination – you know that you have to find a mystery behind every little thing, and – "

"No!" Sherlock shouted, jumping up, face red. "I _know _what I saw, Lestrade, I _know_ what it _means_. I just – I just –" he brought his right hand up to his face, rubbing his temples. "I just thought that maybe, maybe, you'd have an explanation, and – "

"And everything would be like it was before?" Lestrade finished the sentence. "Really, Sherlock, someone like you – I expected more from you. You, who pride yourself on your intelligence – actually, I thought you'd have caught on long before this case. Might even be the only reason I did it – so you could finally realize."

Sherlock nodded, face calm and pale once again, and sat down. Or let himself fall down, to be precise. There didn't seem to be any strength left in his legs, all of a sudden.

Then he asked, quietly, "So, it's true – you were the one who committed the murders who mirrored Jack the Ripper's signature? Please, just do me the favour and answer."

Lestrade smiled and nodded, and didn't miss the slight shudder of Sherlock's at this smile. "Yes, it was me. And before you ask– I killed Lord Brackenstall last fall, I speared Black Peter with the harpoon, and – oh, I was the one who stabbed this guy in his room, leaving it locked on the inside, with no clues. I knew you were frustrated about that one, and I would tell you everything about the fifty-two people I've killed in my life, but you don't look like you could process it right now". Sherlock was shaking by this point. "Never mind, I'm sure you will find out on your own."

"On my own? So you are not going to – "

"God know, Sherlock. I had fun while it lasted, but I'm rather tired of the game. Might as well pull a Moriarty and end it. Though I'd never put you in any danger. You were the one person who made it fun in the last few years. Well, not when you were dead, obviously. But before and after."

Sherlock winced. Then nodded. Stood up. Walked to the door. Turned around when he had reached it.

"You know, Lestrade, you were one of the three people I jumped for, five years ago".

"I am aware of that Sherlock, and If could, I'd be thankful. I really would."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade's empty glance one more time, then he left the flat.

He waited in front of the building – and ignored the shadow he saw leaving the minute he stepped over the threshold – and waited for a few minutes.

There was a shot.

He turned around and walked, until he came to a payphone. He called the suicide in, anonymous, of course.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock returned to 221B.

John was anxiously waiting for him.

"And, did he confess?"

"You know perfectly well" Sherlock replied bitterly. "We both know that you followed me to his flat and stayed hidden in the entrance of the apartment building opposite his, and only left when you saw me come out of it unharmed. And don't pretend you didn't know by the way I walked, by the way I looked what had occurred. That's what – " he had to clear his throat – "that's what _friends_ are for, as I believe, you tried to tell me time and time again."

John looked guilty.

"I – I just wanted to make sure..."

"I know John, and I'm thankful for it".

That was enough to make John close his mouth.

"So you only stayed long enough to see me step out of the building without any life-threatening injury. So you didn't – " He had to swallow and sat down on the sofa.

"So you didn't hear the shot".

John flinched, his eyes wide open.

"So he – "

"Drew the consequences" Sherlock interrupted him.

"And you are – "

"I'm going to do nothing. There's no reason, now that he's dead, to... to make the Yard think any less of him. And me, solving one case less – it's not like Donavan or Anderson could think any less of me. Maybe they won't even notice, now they have more important things to do, now that their boss is – dead – I called it in from a payphone about two streets from his flat. With a handkerchief over the receiver, naturally, Though I don't think they'll call me in. It was so obviously a suicide".

His face was blank – except for his eyes. John could see the pain in there, and he knew where it came from. He understood.

Lestrade had been Sherlock's first friend, one of the foremost reasons he quit cocaine (which was probably why he and John shared a flat now, and John's stomach twisted at the thought), one of the three Sherlock had died for five years ago.

And to learn now, after all these years, that he'd been a killer –

John himself suffered enough, he didn't want to know what Sherlock went through at this moment.

So he just walked over to Sherlock and put his hand on his friend's shoulder, causing him to look up.

"I'm going to make tea. Would you like a cuppa?"

Sherlock nodded, apparently lost for words. Any other day, John would have enjoyed the sight.

Now he just went into the kitchen and made tea.

When he came back –

He'd often seen Sherlock smirk, or laugh, or even sorry.

He'd seen him full of glee, he'd seen him suffer, he'd even seen him sad.

But he'd never seen him cry.

Until today.

**Author's note: Sorry to all Lestrade lovers.**

**I know, trust me, I know. But that's what came to me, once upon a midnight dreary. **

**Mind: You know, that is shameless.**

**Me: You are telling me that?**

**Mind: Oh, I don't mean the story. I mean your shameless begging for reviews and advertising your stories.**

**Me: But turning Lestrade into a psychopathic serial killer is okay?**

**Mind: Yes.**

**Me: You don't think that's a little weird?**

**Mind: You have read our other stories, right?**

**Me: Yes, I have. Let's leave it at that.**

**I hope you liked it, please review.**


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